


Broken Crown

by KToon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lucifer's Cage, Multi, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Sam Winchester-centric, Time Travel, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 10:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KToon/pseuds/KToon
Summary: Sam Winchester is begging to die. Or leave; just to be anywhere other than here.Trapped in the endless abyss of Lucifer's cage, continuously tormented by the works of two angels, he's just about done. With everything. He's lost all hope-- there's no chance of escape now. Then suddenly, he finds himself back in 1997. Those who rescued him... Unknown.  Why he's there... Unknown.Already having to deal with his family and their many questions, he notices the increase of supernatural characteristics. It's almost like they're swarming, preparing for something.The Boy King has returned to take back his crown.(Editing) (On hold)





	1. To Hell and Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for giving this story a chance! This is Cross-Posted on Wattpad, and has not been beta-ed. Any mistakes are mine. I hope you like it :) Reviews are awesome.
> 
> This is my first story on AO3, so I apologize if anything is messed up.
> 
> (This chapter is the prologue.)

Sam's Point Of View

Sam Winchester has lost count. Of how long he's been in here, of how much pain he's endured. The heat burns at his skin. Ripping, tearing; it doesn't ever seem to stop. His bunk buddies have left him alone for now. It's a rare occasion.

The tight bars overlap each other, revealing only small spaces to look through. When he does, though, there's nothing but darkness. Nothing but an endless abyss that keeps him locked in here. Sam felt the moment he arrived something pull him out. Only half of him, however. His body, and that was it. His soul was still trapped in the dark chambers of the cage. He was still Sam, but whoever outside of the prison was not.

Suddenly, a dark, menacing laugh reverberated throughout the small space. Oh, how he dreaded that sound. Slowly, Sam turned around from the small hole in the cage he was looking out of. Before him stood two men. The one on the left had dusty, light brown hair paired with blazing, grey eyes. The face that stared into him now was the face of his own brother. But at the same time, it wasn't—he knew that look all too well. The one of a possessed vessel. Adam was long gone, burned alive by his friend. Inside was Michael now, the power-thirsty archangel.

Beside him stood the Prince of Darkness. Like Michael, he had a light brown hair style, but his was slicked back. Just the presence of him made Sam shiver. Oh, how he felt bad for the poor, innocent person in which the Devil was possessing.

Michael and Lucifer exchanged glances, before Sam felt the sudden white hot, familiar, pain expand throughout his lower back. He keeled to the floor of the jail, refusing to cry out and give them the satisfaction of their torture. Inhaling deeply, he looked up at the two powerful celestial beings.

"You really think...that I'm going to just sit here...and let you scourge me day after day...without a God damn fight?" he pants.

Lucifer steps forward, a glint in his eyes. "Mmm, Sam. I really don't care what the hell you do. All I know is that you're the reason I'm— _we're_ —trapped in this cell." 

The pain increases, and Sam can't help it but to let out a small groan of shock. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, then, you _bitch_ ," he spits.

"Oh believe me, he has," Michael chips in. "And so have I. But, I don't know. It's nice to feel powerful again, and both of us can agree on that little detail." He takes a step forward, and gives a solid uppercut to Sam. 

Again and again, Michael repeatedly strikes at Sam's face. Finally, he's knocked down to the ground. "This won't change a thing," Sam sputters. "You can repeat this process for eternity, and I will never bow down to you. Either of you."

Lucifer takes his turn now. "See, here's where you're wrong, Sammy. I think you will break. Patience is a virtue. And virtue, well, virtue is just a bitch." Suddenly, the once slim, evil man is replaced with a more tall, kinder figure. His brown, almost blonde, hair is swept back, revealing his hardened features and piercing green eyes. Michael is now nowhere to be seen. 

Sam doesn't care about that anymore, though. His eyes are trained on the person now standing before him.

"D-Dean..?" he chokes out.

"You know, after you left us, me and dad, leaving us all alone in the world, all I could think of was, _Wow, Sam. I guess you really are a monster_."

Sam's look turned from relief to confusion in under a matter of a few seconds. There was something different about this form of his older brother. It didn't take a genius to figure out what this ploy was. Lucifer. "No," Sam begins. "You can take the form of and ruin my memories of my friends, my father, hell even my mother, but you don't get to take him."

Lucifer didn't even flinch, instead carrying on as though Sam had never even spoken. "And oh, boy. Those visions. That's when I really started to believe what I had thought all those years ago was possibly true. Finally, though, when I initially spotted you drinking that demon blood...man! That was the icing on the cake!" the faux Dean taunted.

"And when you beat me, turned me into that bloody pulp of a mess, that's when I fully accepted it. You're a monster, Sam."

"You're not real," Sam protested. The single tear leaking down his face betrayed him, though.

"Oh, of course I'm real, Sammy." Dean grinned a wicked smile in response. "I'm just speaking the truth for the first time."

At this, Sam snapped. Before he knew what was happening, he threw a punch. "That's good, Sam," Dean hissed, as he caught the fist mid-air.

"Fight."


	2. I Will Not Speak of Your Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize how similar this was to something that is actually canon in the show, but just so you know, from here on out, it's completely different!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Cold. Cold metal. That's the very first thing that Sam noticed when he woke up. The iron, it felt like, chilled his cheek. Where was he?

Oh. That's right.

Gradually, he looked up and into his surroundings. The familiar overlapping bars, the familiar humidity, the familiar heat. He got to his knees, and wiped the blood that had dried on his nose off with his shirt. The same shirt he had been wearing for a month down here, which, in reality, was a mere couple of days back up top.

Both Lucifer and Michael were nowhere in sight.

When Sam finally managed to get to his feet, everything ached. Even his mind-- the memory of Dean, no, Lucifer, saying those things bounced around in his memory. Not only that, but it brought back flashbacks to before he killed Lilith. Dean telling him he was a monster over the phone of all things, and them two fighting each other. He shuddered at the thought. The guilt of starting the apocalypse weighed on him, which resulted of him deciding to throw himself back into the pit with Lucifer. Just knowing he let Dean down crushed him, and he couldn't bear the thought of doing it again. These were his consequences, and he had to deal with them.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. It sent chills through his spine, and he instinctively turned, ready to punch whoever was intruding upon his space. It was Michael. Swiftly, he swung, but Michael disappeared into thin air, laughing. 

"Oh come on. Really?" Sam chanted bravely. "You coward!" He was angry, and he put all of his might into his words. "Fight me! Hell, just kill me already!"

"Oh, Sam," Michael responded with a false sadness in his voice. "You're already dead. And if you mean by putting you out of your misery like a sick dog, then that'd just be too easy!"

"Brother," came a wispy voice from behind. "I do believe it's my turn."

Michael turned, just in time to see Lucifer. "Sorry, Luci, he's mine today," he snarled.

Before any more dialogue could be exchanged, Michael went for the feet. Lucifer went for the head, and Sam just backed up to the corner of the cage. It was best to let them settle their disputes themselves. Ultimately, Michael came out on top. By this point, is was pretty obvious that he was the more powerful of the two.

"Oh well," Lucifer panted. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, bunk buddy." He winked at Sam, and then was gone in less than a second.

"Mmm. What should we do today?" Michael pondered.

"How about you go to Hell?" Sam retorted.

"Look around us! We're already there!"

"Go further into Hell, then. The deepest, most darkest place that a dick like you could travel."

"But I like it here."

"Suck it up, you _bitch_."

"Name calling? Really? Even I could do better than 'bitch'."

"Give me your best shot."

"Oh darlin', we've got plenty of time for that." Michael grinned a sly smile, and took another step forward.

Then, before either one of them could process what was happening, a bright light filled the musty chamber. A strange look came across Michael's features. Fear. Something that had not been seen in a very long time. Perhaps, ever.

"No!" Michael boasted. "You can't do this!" Sam looked at him oddly. Did he know what was happening? Of course he did. What didn't he know?

"Do what?" Sam sputtered, shielding his eyes from the light. Suddenly, a raspy voice filled the chamber. 'It's your lucky day, Sammy,' it whispered. Everything was a blur after that, and in a few seconds, everything went black.

\--

Wet. Wet grass. Wait, GRASS?

Was he seeing this right?

Sam was positioned in an awkward way. He was flat on his stomach, sprawled out in a sun-lit field. The dew on the blades were itching into his skin, making his exposed arms and legs stiff. At least, though, he was feeling actual cold water. Something that he hadn't felt in while.

Slowly, he got to his feet. There was nothing in sight-- just an endless prairie of flat, manicured green. It was almost too perfect. By the looks of it, morning had just come to pass, which explained why the grass was damp. Sam stood up and brushed the wetness off of his overcoat. It was torn, but it was all he had at the current moment in time. His jeans were also extremely dirty. 

Sam sighed, as he realized that there was no other way to find out where he was except to walk. Where he was going, he had no clue. But, he decided, north was the best way to travel, judging on the position of the sun.

Finally, he started off. Surprisingly, nothing hurt like it did in the cage. He hadn't been in there for too long, considering the amount of time Dean spent on his tour down under. A month wasn't bad, and he could manage the small amount he endured. 

It would be about five hours of straight walking before Sam came across a small, rustic pub. He breathed a sigh of relief when it came into view, thanking whoever was listening. 

Slowly, he trudged up to the entrance. There was only one empty car in the parking lot. Was it even open? Carefully, he softly knocked on the oaken door. No answer. He sighed, and checked his pockets for anything he pick the lock with. Sadly, there was nothing.

Then, an idea came to mind. Sam took a few steps back before he leaned forward and kicked the door off of its hinges. It opened with a loud bang, and he hoped nobody else was around to hear it. Once he entered, the first thing he noticed was the overwhelming odor of whiskey. Or bourbon. He couldn't tell anymore. Regardless, it seemed as though nobody had cleaned up here in a while-- it looked like a war zone. Tables were overturned, and chairs were flipped onto their backs. Glass was shattered across the wooden floor, and reflected the sun's rays that were shining into the window. Sam shielded his eyes as he surveyed the rest of the scene. Something had happened here, no doubt about it.

Sam wandered behind the counter, and cautiously stepped around the broken beer bottles to a small, black fridge resting just off to the left side. Swiftly, he grabbed a bottle of water and downed the whole thing in under thirty seconds. He took a short break, before repeating the process with a second one. 

Suddenly, and eerie feeling fell upon the air. Quickly, Sam dropped the bottle and looked around. He knew that feeling.

Just then, he felt something pull his hands behind his back. He kicked at his attacker with his feet, hitting the target of the kneecap spot on. The intruder stumbled, releasing Sam. Sam turned to face the man, and threw a punch. The man ducked, and went for Sam's stomach. Sam dodged, however, stepping to the side, and threw the man into a nearby upside-down table. He got up, and this time raised a hand. Abruptly, a seemingly invisible force slammed Sam into the cabinets, and held him there. The man then started bursting out laughing.

"Oh, boy, the cage must of messed you up terribly, if this is how weak you are these days. I thought you Winchesters were supposed to be the tough, big bad hunters that everyone talked about. Obviously, in this time, it is the complete opposite."

Sam's head spun.

"'This time'?" he wondered.

"Oh," the demon, or so he thought, sighed, "that's right. Little Sammy doesn't know where the hell he is, does he?"

All Sam did was stare at the man. "Christo."

The man's eyes flashed a midnight black, and he twitched. "Long time since you've used that, huh Sammy boy?"

"It's Sam," Sam snarled.

"Anyways, back to the main reason we are here. May 5th, nineteen-ninty-seven," he drawled out the words. "When you were 15 years old. Here, we are in Chandler, Arizona, I believe." He looked around.

"You and your family were working a, let's see, what was it, a hunt that had something to do with a Pagan God munching on little children or something."

The memories came back to Sam in an instant. He remembered that hunt. 13 children had died before they were able to stop the monster. 

"So, you're telling me that we're back in 1997," Sam ventured, taking advantage of gaining this knowledge that this demon was so graciously giving to him. "May I ask why?"

"Well, it looks as though somebody wasn't too pleased with how your story ended. Taking control of Lucifer, sacrificing yourself by jumping in the cage, my my, you were quite a celebrity."

"You said we're 13 years in the past, correct? Then how would you know these things?"

"I hear things," he said simply. "But, something definitely wanted you back here. Why, I don't know. Who, I don't have a single idea. I just felt the _disturbance in the force_. Everybody did."

Disregarding the fact that a demon watched pop-culture movies, Sam finally realized who he was talking to.

"Meg."

"Who?"

"Your name. It's Meg."

"Uh... Well currently I'm wearing a physicist. His name is Zach, which I guess makes me Zach, but you get the point."

"No, I mean, I've met you. Eight years into the future. You possess a woman named Meg Masters, and attempt to kill Dean and me. Later, you then possess me, and then finally," he paused. "We meet again in Carthage, Missouri," Sam explained. He couldn't help to feel the pang of sadness at the place where Jo and Ellen died. He shuddered.

"Possess you," Meg laughed. "Seems like a thing I would do."

"How did you find me?" Sam changed the subject.

"None of your business," Meg whispered in his ear.

"Yes, it is my damn business. Time-travelling never ends well. For me, or for anyone," Sam retorted. Meg laughed in response, not saying anything more for the time being.

Finally, she spoke. "You know, killing you would be too easy. I could always, you know, go for a second round. Apparently I lost the first match. Zach is, well, he's wearing a little bit thin." She grinned, and just then, Meg began smoking out. Sam smiled, as she abruptly stopped and returned back to her original vessel.

"What, what did you do?" she questioned.

"I learned my lesson after the first time," he replied, intense simplicity tinging his tone.

Meg walked over to him, and pulled down the top left of his tee. The black pentagram tattoo revealed itself. She stumbled back. "You bastard!" she cried.

"Well, this had been a nice conversation, and I learned a lot, but obviously I have to find a way back to my own time. I don't have time for this," Sam continued. "See you around, Meg.  _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_ \--" He began the exorcism, but only completed one part before Meg smoked out on her own.

He watched as she circled around once, before diving into a nearby vent. The invisible force holding him hostage released its pressure, and he fell to his knees. The fragments of broken beer bottles cut into his skin, and he gasped in pain. Gradually, he regained his balance, and stood back up. Blood was staining his leggings, but it didn't matter anyways. He'd gone through much worse in the cage.

Sam spent another few moments scavenging the bar, finding nothing, before returning to the outside. Evening was settling, and he had to find a place to sleep. The pub was no place to rest. One demon found him, who's to say another wouldn't? Or an angel. Then, it hit him. The angels never ventured down to the ground until '09. He sighed in relief. That was one more issue he didn't have to worry about in this time. 

To be honest, Sam was worried. He hadn't time traveled since going back to see his younger mother and father when Anna was hunting them. Even then, he had died. Stabbed in the stomach. Living a repeat was not on his bucket list.

In the parking lot sat the same white '68 Chevy Impala. It was not that nice of a car, pretty poor in fact, but it reminded him of Dean so much. It resembled nothing of the 1967 black four-door, not even a little, but it was a constant portrayal of his older brother.

Naturally, Sam went over to the vehicle. It was locked, but of course that was no problem. He had nothing on him, but nobody was around, and he assumed that the car belonged to Meg's vessel. He picked up a stone, drew back, and slammed it through the driver side window. The glass shattered inwards, and he reached his hand inside and unlocked the car door. Once he opened it, he went under the wheel and looked for all the correct wires. It took a little while, but eventually he heard the rustic purr of the engine.

Grinning, he pulled out onto the black asphalt, and started down the road.


	3. The Mirror Shows Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you got this far? Thanks!

After a little ways down the road, Sam finally made it into the main town of Chandler. What was he supposed to do? He knew very little of where he was, and even less about the concept of time travel. He inhaled deeply. _It's just like another job_ , he told himself, _just another, ordinary job. What would be the first thing Dean and I would do_?

He already knew the answer. Grab a cheap motel room, and investigate what had happened. But here, he already knew what had occurred. Someone-- something-- had dragged him back into the past to get the ending that they wanted. This was just all one big disaster. The idea of traveling through time was very odd to Sam. He had researched a little before Castiel dropped them off years before he was born, but not enough to satisfy his thirst of knowledge.

Alas, Sam made it to a worn-down, old-looking motel. A bright neon green sign spelled out that the residence was vacant, and he pulled the car into the parking lot. Running into the building to avoid the rain that was pouring down, Sam opened the doors and stepped into the lobby.

Quickly, he walked up to the desk attendant and requested a room for one. The man handed him the paperwork, and Sam dug through his pockets for some way to pay. He pulled out one pocket, then the next, to find that there was nothing. He was starting from scratch. Sam sighed, and apologized to the attendant before walking back out to the car. He thanked his past self for leaving the car running, as he climbed back behind the wheel. He needed to find another form of transportation, one that was more permanent, so that he didn't have to continue hot-wiring the vehicle.

Sam drove for a solid ten minutes before he reached an old fashioned looking diner, titled 'Chase's'. He got out and surveyed his surroundings before trudging through the eerie, strangely deserted, parking lot.

Chase's was not that busy, but Sam managed to walk in at just the right time. An older looking citizen was just walking out, and Sam "accidentally" bumped into him. Swiftly, he searched around in the man's pocket before pulling out the black car keys. Grinning, he stuck them in his own jacket and sat down at a booth.

A waitress walked over, and he ordered a cup of black coffee to go. He didn't need to linger around too long-- he had to figure out how to get back to his own time. If he could, that was. In order to do that, however, he had to figure out what had brought him back in the first place.

The only thing he could think of at the current moment was the angels, as it was all he knew of that was capable of travelling through time. Although, this didn't seem like something they would do. They were very specific on when they wanted the apocalypse to begin and end. They weren't even on Earth right now, either. 

The waitress returned with his drink, and Sam smiled sweetly at her. Something seemed to flicker in her eyes, as she quickly told him what time her shift ended. Sam nodded and acted like he was going to pull out money from his pocket, but the waitress stopped him. 

"It can be our secret," she said smugly.

Sam winked at her, and got up from the table. At least he got the coffee free. No way was he meeting up with her afterwards. He already had too much to think about.

In the parking lot, Sam quickly found the car that the keys belonged to, looked around to make sure nobody was watching, and got in. He didn't know how long he drove for, but it was night when he came across a small bar on a back road.

The place was worn down, but it looked decent. It was semi-crowded, but that was a good thing in this case. When he entered, there were a bunch of tough looking dudes standing around in different sections of the pub. It seemed as though when he arrived, they all stopped what they were doing to look at the newcomer.

He knew what this was. This was a roadhouse.

\--

A roadhouse. Of all the bars on back roads he could have picked, he picked a roadhouse. A woman in the back came out from behind the counter top and walked to the center of the room.

"I don't recognize you," she said carefully. "Are you a hunter?"

Sam froze. How was he supposed to respond to this? "Uh, yes." The tension in the room seemed as though it could be sliced with a butter knife.

"Well then tell me, mister hunter. How do you kill a Vetala?"

Sam thought for a second, before he finally answered. "Silver knife to the heart, added with a twist." At his response, the woman nodded and everybody seemed to go back to what they were doing before his arrival. The woman waved him over as she started walking to the bar, preparing a drink for him.

"Drink's on me," she said with a sweet smile. "What would you like, hon'?"

"Anything that's strong," Sam replied tiredly. He needed something, anything, to calm down for a while. 

The woman laughed. "Long day, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Well, we've got time. What's your name?"

"Sam," Sam gingerly said. He figured if this was from the past, nobody would recognize him. Sam was a pretty common name.

"Got a last name, there, Sam?"

He stared at her, remaining silent. There could definitely be some people here who knew his father, and if he gave out his last name, that would ruin everything.

"Look," the lady continued, "I just want to know who's in my Roadhouse. We don't get newcomers here very often."

"Casey. Sam Casey."

"See, now I know that's a lie. I know all the tricks. You can either give me your real name now, and I'll give you a place to sleep tonight. Or, you can lie again, and I'll kick you right out if this joint." 

Sam glanced up at her as she gave him his drink, impressed. She reminded him of Ellen. "Tell me your name first," he countered.

"Malia Blythe."

"Sam Winchester."

"He's lyin' again," said a new voice to Sam's left. He turned his head, and his heart dropped into his stomach. "Because my son is Sam Winchester, and he is fifteen years old."

He wasn't sure how he could have possibly missed him, but there sitting before him was his father. He was younger and less gruff, and seemed to have a more grim expression. He would know that face anywhere-- the look of tiredness after a long hunt.

John stood up from his barstool, and walked a few feet over so he was closer to Sam. 

"Now why don't you tell my why in the Hell you are using my son's name as an alias, or we're going to have a very serious situation on our hands. I doubt Malia here would like that very much," he said intimidatingly. But Sam quit being afraid of his father a long time ago, and at the current moment, he was bigger and had the upper hand.

"Can we talk in the back?" Sam said softly, so that no other hunter would hear him. The last thing he wanted was some eavesdroppers spreading the word.

John stared at him for a long time before he thundered off to the back. The dusty floorboards creaked at every step he took. Malia started to follow him, but Sam grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him. 

"Look, I'm sorry, but this is a private matter," he began quickly. He did not want to piss John off more than he already was. "You've got to trust me on this, okay?"

"Yeah. Hell no."

"What?"

"I said no, Sam. This is my place, and I have a right to know everything that is going on here. Even _private matters_." At that, she freed her arm and continued her trek to the back. Sam sighed before following her, entering the room at the same time.

It was a small bedroom. It had one twin-sized bed resting in the corner, a nightstand and lamp accompanying it. A few pictures of normal cityscapes decorated the wooden walls, and a red rug sat in the center of the room. Opposite from the bed was an oaken desk with a wood chair, and on it sat multiple books, most likely containing some form of lore. On top of the books was a small cube T.V., probably used to find cases.

When Malia and Sam entered, John took the desk chair and Sam took the bed. Malia stood in the center of the room, not seeming to mind the lack of seating, as John looked over at the newcomer expectantly.

"Well?" he prodded.

"John, listen," Sam began, warning him that he wanted his dad's full attention. "This is going to sound crazy, but you need to believe me."

"Don't you dare say that--"

"I'm your son," Sam cut him off. This seemed to anger John, because the next thing Sam knew, he was flat on the bed in a chokehold. Malia, surprised, quickly ran over to pull him off. 

"John! Stop!"

Her words seemed to snap him back to reality, and he released his pressure in an instant. Sam sat up on the mattress, gasping for breath, a little dazed.

"My son is _fifteen_ years old," John snapped.

"And I am twenty nine," Sam coughed. "I am from the year 2010, and I, Sam Winchester, am your youngest son. My brother is Dean Winchester, and my mother is Mary Campbell. Mary died on November 2, 1983, which pushed you into raising Dean and me into the family business. I always wanted something more, a family, but Dean wanted to follow you and live up to the Winchester's name. When you were young, your dad abandoned you to leave you by yourself in the world, and later, you joined the military. Whenever you would want to tell Dean or me something, you would often leave us coordinates. Any of this ringing a bell, John?"

John started at the man on the bed, dumbstruck.

"S-Sam?" he stuttered.

"Hey, Dad."

"B-But how?"

"Still working on that."

"Wait wait wait," Malia interrupted. "So you're telling me that I have a damn time traveler in my bar?"

"In the future, the televisions are ten times that size, and flat," Sam told her thoughtfully, motioning to the small television in the room. "A lot has changed since this time." Malia looked at him oddly, as if to see if he was joking.

"So, if you're here, where is _my_ Sam?" John asked eagerly. He seemed desperate. That was not something Sam had seen in a long time. Did he actually care that much about him? Well, younger him?

"Depends on who did this. Either our timelines could be mixed up, intertwined, or he could be where my, um, future self was." 

"And where was your future self?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath. "That's a story for another time."

"No, it isn't. I'd like to know where my son may or may not be," John said with overwhelming authority. This was a tone he was all too familiar with before he went to college.

"I said no. Look, there are some things I can share with you, some things I can't. Not yet, at least," Sam stated boldly. "And I am not ready to share that yet."

"It was someplace bad. Awful."

"What?"

"I know the look from my time in service. You've been through Hell." Sam scoffed at that remark, even though he knew that's not what his dad was implying.

"Tell me about it," he muttered under his breath.


	4. Your Values Are All Shot

Eventually, John gave up on trying to get the location of where Sam was before the incident. He couldn't believe that this grown man standing in front of him was the small, clumsy fifteen year-old son that he had now. His hair was long, his hazel eyes sprinkled with brown flecks. He was also very, very tall. How could this be his Sam? But he knew everything about him and his family, even exact dates. There's nobody else it could be.

A part of John was immensely worried for his youngest son and where he was, especially if the Sam he had now wasn't even willing to talk about where he was previously. The look he saw on this man's face was one of those he often saw when he served in the military. The look of extreme pain and torture. He was doing a good job of concealing it, and it fooled maybe Malia, but not him. He was good at reading people.

Sooner or later, he will find out where this man was. He wasn't ready to call him his son. He just showed up out of nowhere, claiming to be Sam, no warning whatsoever. Everything about him was a mystery, and John was ready to crack it. First step, though, establishing trust.

It had been silent in the room for a couple of minutes, nobody willing to be the first to speak. All of this was extreme, even for hunters. Sam was the first to break the silence, when he cleared his throat.

"Well, I say we need to figure out what happened to this timeline's Sam. Maybe it will give us a clue to what pulled me back here."

"And why," Malia added.

Sam said not a word, earning curious glances from the other two people in the room.

"You know why...?" John ventured.

"It doesn't matter. You won't understand any of it," Sam said. "But yes. I do know why."

"Well, then why?" his dad asked fiercely. "And don't you say that it's a story for another time, because I am not buying any of that crap. We are going to do this together. We-" he motioned to Malia and himself, "-are a part of this now."

Sam put his head in his hands and rubbed his face. "Have you guys ever heard of angels?"

Malia and John looked at each other. "Who hasn't?" they simultaneously chorused. 

"No, no, I meant about them actually being real."

"Wait, you're not saying..." John asked, dumbfounded. "Oh come on. First time travelers and now angels?"

"Not in this time, no. The angels don't come down until '09. But anyways, that's besides the point. Extremely long story short, I was the vessel for the archangel Lucifer. A vessel is almost like a meat-suit to a demon, but an angel needs the person's permission to take control of their body.

"The Devil was accidentally freed from his cage, and he was ready to wreck havoc. The angels wanted the other archangel Michael to fight him, and win, therefore killing millions of people in the process.

"I ended up being Lucifer's true vessel, and Dean, Michael's. Although, Michael ultimately ended up possessing Adam. Dean and I had figured out a way to throw the Devil back in his box, but I had to beat him, regain control, in order to toss him back in the cage. I succeeded, and brought Michael in the prison with me. As a result, I was trapped in the cage with the two very, may I say, pissed off archangels. You happy?"

Both John and Malia's mouths were wide open. "So, you're saying my son could be trapped somewhere with the Devil?" Sam chuckled, noticing the fact that he skipped right over the fact that he-- 29 year-old him-- had been stuck in there.

"Possibly."

John immediately stood up from the desk chair and began exiting the room. Malia started to follow him, and Sam followed her. They walked straight through the pub, no words exchanged, to a black truck that was resting in a close parking space. "Get in," John told Sam. "Malia, stay here." When he noticed Malia was about to protest, he raised his tone. " _Stay_." She gave a face, but remained still. 

Sam buckled the seat-belt, hearing the click, and John started to drive off somewhere. He had been in this truck before-- it was the one his dad had gotten after he gave the Impala to Dean. At this point, Sam was really beginning to miss his older brother, and this vehicle was not helping the situation in any way. He wondered if Dean had taken his advice to go see Lisa and Ben, and live a normal life out of the way of hunting. He hoped he had, it was practically his dying wish. 

In fact, Sam didn't know what had happened. Did he really die, or was his soul just sent to limbo? He figured that since something had pulled half of him out, separating his body from his actual life force, that he had to have been dead. Besides, Michael had said so back in the cage. Not that Michael was a reliable source, but he had no reason lie.

Although, it did bring one question to mind. How did he have his body now? His body was gone. Obviously whoever brought him back was very careful to bring him back in his 27 year-old self. He couldn't blame them. Who would want a fifteen year old kid running an army? Speaking of which, that thought brought a new memory to Sam. 

Snapping out of his intense mental conversation, Sam reached to the glove compartment and opened it. It was never locked, so he could easily access its contents. He sifted through a few stacks of paper before he finally found what he was looking for. It was a leather material journal, filled with multiple entries. The words were written in a neat, tight format, something he figured was his handwriting back then. In the corner of the book was the initials _S.W._ He hadn't seen this thing in forever. When his dad took it to find Meg and give her the fake Colt, he must've left it there and never gone back for it. Sam often left his journal in there, as nobody bothered to look in the niche.

Sam grinned, and looked up at his dad who was staring at him strangely. "What is that?" he questioned.

"When I was younger, I wrote in this journal I found back in a dirty ol' motel room we stayed in for one hunt way back. I always kept it in here because I figured nobody else would bother to look. I was right." Sam explained. 

His dad chuckled to himself, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, "Seems like a thing you would do."

Sam smiled, realizing that his dad referred to him as 'you', and not 'my son'. Maybe the journal really gave it away. He wasn't wrong, Sam was definitely the type to write in a journal, and his dad most likely figured that out.

"You got a pen?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Should be one in the back." 

For the first time, Sam looked back into the seats behind him to find multiple papers scattered across the fabric. Multiple notes were scribbled across them. A lot of them, he noticed, were newspaper clippings, others bits and pieces of lore. On top of them rested a black pen, and Sam reached back and grabbed it. Without really thinking, he opened to the next blank page of the journal and began writing in it.

He started to write the date, but then paused. He didn't exactly know what day it was.

"Hey, what's the date?" he asked his dad.

John laughed, and told him, "September 12, 1997." 

Sam paused, and a grin spread across his face. He had never really seen his dad smile, let alone laugh. It was semi of a rare occurrence. Then, he continued, and wrote down the date.

The 12th of September, 1977...

He didn't manage to write anymore than that, because just then, the truck pulled to a stop in the parking lot of an actually decent motel room. Oddly enough, Sam remembered staying here. Returning to it was strange, as he was now thirteen years older. 

John rapidly exited the car, and Sam followed. They came to the door of room 166, and John frantically searched his jacket for the room key. Worry was spread across his features, a look Sam knew all too well, but never on his dad. He never knew that John cared that much about him. 

At last, he pulled out a silver key with a tag on it, and jammed it into the lock. The door opened, and John pushed it open harshly. It hit the wall and bounced back, but Sam held his hand to it to stop it from hitting them. His dad walked to the center of the room, looking around. The motel room, besides them, was empty.

John put a hand to his face, and scanned the room over and over. In his mind, he was hoping that Sam was playing some sort of prank. He knew he wasn't.

"M-Maybe he went out?" John reasoned, trying to be optimistic.

"No," Sam said softly. "I remember being here alone. You went out for a drink and Dean went to go get some food at this local bakery in town. Even then, he had a fetish for pie." He said the last sentence mainly to himself to lighten the mood, but it didn't help in the slightest manner.

"So what does this mean? My son is trapped in some prison now? With S-Satan?"

"He was before this happened," Sam said quietly so that nobody but him could hear.

Before Sam could fully process things, his dad curled his fingers into a fist, and he swiped a table lamp off of the motel desk. Next, he took the office chair and threw it into the mirror that hung just above where the lamp used to sit. The glass shattered, and then John took his fist and drove it through the television screen. That didn't appear to satisfy his anger enough, though, because he then took to the bed sheets and ripped them all off. He screamed out in hatred to the world, to whoever was listening, before he finally ran his hand through his raven hair. He inhaled deep, steady breaths. Sam just stood there, letting him take out his frustration on the objects around him. It was definitely something Dean got from him.

Sometimes after hunts, Sam would return and find their motel a complete mess. Chairs would be thrown all over the place and tables overturned, papers scattered across the floor. He never brought it up to his brother, because by the next morning their temporary home would be all neat and tidy again. It was something that Dean always needed to sort through himself, he assumed, because his older brother never once came to him for comfort. He always wished that Dean would trust him enough to open up to him, but now that opportunity was gone. 

Throwing his emotions into the back of his mind, Sam focused once more on John. He was now sitting on the cover-less bed, head in his hands. Suddenly, a low rumble of an engine sounded throughout the motel room. He would recognize that sound anywhere. It was his home. 

Sam turned to face the door, when it opened abruptly. 

"Hey, Sammy, I've got some pie. You want--" 

A younger Dean stepped into the room, just to stop in his tracks. He looked at Sam.

"Sam?"


	5. But Oh, My Heart Was Flawed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One, reviews are LOVE <3 They're what inspire me to keep writing. This is my first multi-chapter fic, so I'm sorry if there are any continuality errors. Like I said, I have no beta right now ;)
> 
> Second, if you've got this far, bless you! <3

"Sam?"

The younger Dean was looking straight into his brother's eyes. Somehow, someway, he knew it was him. 

Sam smiled, and responded, "Hey, Dean."

"What the hell...?"

"Hell is one word for it."

"Dad?" Dean turned to his father. "What's happening?"

Nobody said anything after that, leaving Dean to have to try and figure out this mystery by himself. He seemed to have cracked it mere seconds later, because he then said, "Holy crap." He was smart, after all, and caught onto things very quick.

Sam nodded.

"Time traveling?"

Sam nodded again.

"What the..."

Dean set the pie box down and walked closer to his younger brother. John just stayed sitting on the bed, while Sam pulled him into a big embrace.

"You're... How the hell did you get so tall? Dad, are you sure?"

John looked at Dean sadly. Dean couldn't comprehend why his dad was sad, but he let it slide for now.

"Wait, so, are you fifteen inside an older body? Or are you actually, well, however old you are?"

"Twenty-nine," Sam responded. This was a very awkward conversation to be having with your family. I mean, coming to them thirteen years older all of a sudden wasn't just something that happened normally. How did you even talk about that with them?

"Okay! Well, um... Let's, uh, um..." Dean struggled to try to say something, but couldn't seem to manage to get it out right.

"Listen, guys, this has been an amazing family reunion, but I have to try to figure out some stuff to get this timeline's Sam back here, and me where he is now." Sam changed the subject.

" _You_ have to?" John spoke for the first time in a while. "No, _we_ have to." 

"I can't say this plain enough. You try to follow me, and I will knock your ass flat on the floor, you hear me? Do I make myself clear? We've already screwed up history enough by me even meeting you." Sam retaliated in a firm voice. His dad looked surprised.

"Excuse me? I am still your father, Sam, whether we like this or not. Which, by the way, in this case happens to be the latter." John was now standing up.

Sam smiled sadly.

"You were never my father. You were my drill sergeant."

Sam didn't even glance back when he walked out of the motel room.

***

"Hey! Hey! Sammy! Or... Uh... Sam!"

Sam heard Dean's voice behind him, but continued walking down the sidewalk. The less they talked, the better. He wasn't going to drag Dean into this mess as well.

"Sam! Stop!"

Unable to resist his older brother anymore, he obliged and turned around to face the nineteen year-old. Dean looked up at him, panting.

"Please," he begged. "Please stay. We'll figure this out together."

"Dean..." Sam began, but was cut off.

"No, Sammy--Sam, hear me out. Please," Dean tried again, and when Sam didn't interrupt, he continued. "Listen, I don't know how the hell you got here, why, or when. But I do know that you are still my brother, no matter how old you are. I could feel the familiarity. That's how I knew it was you.

"And yes, I know that sounds odd, but it's the truth. I need you to see that. We can do this together, okay? We'll figure it out. I promise you that. But you have to have just a bit of faith in me, alright? I already trust you with my life, but it's a two-way street."

There was a long silence.

"Aw, how cute," said a new voice from behind, suddenly. Dean's eyes widened, and Sam turned around to see Meg. She was in a new vessel. Her brunette hair fell in curls to her back, contrasting with her hazel eyes. "Of course the brothers would meet in this time."

"Meg," Sam hissed.

"Hiya."

"What do you want?" Dean asked, stepping so that he was in an even line with Sam. He didn't even know who this Meg was, but at the sound of his brother's tone, he could tell it wasn't anybody good.

"You."

Suddenly, the space where Meg was standing was empty, and Sam didn't even have time to react before he noticed she was now beside Dean. "2259 Hickman. See you soon, Sam," she said in a wispy voice, winked, and disappeared-- Dean with her.

***

John was sitting on the motel bed, head in his hands, when a knock at the front door snapped him out of his train of thought. Slowly, he stood up, grabbed his pistol off the office desk, and stalked over to the locked door. He put the nozzle to the wood, and unlocked it gingerly.

As soon as it opened no more than a crack, somebody forcefully pushed it open all the way. John stepped back, tucking his gun away, as he realized it was Sam.

"You're back," he observed. Sam was breathing heavily, and eventually he sat down on the bed. He ran his hands through his hair, a tactic John recognized from his time in the war as a way to mask extreme worry. "What's wrong..." he said darkly.  It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

Sam didn't respond, but John wouldn't have any of that. "I said what's wrong, Sam."

"It's Dean," he replied in a near whisper.

"What about Dean?" John pressed, wanting a direct answer. Sam must have picked up on that, because he explained further.

"A demon. Wants me to meet her. She's using him as leverage, so I'm assuming that she won't physically hurt him. I don't think she would anyways, though."

At this point, John was standing and Sam had gotten up to match him. Ironically, Sam was much taller than his father and he had to look down at him. But right now, if looks could kill, Sam would've been murdered, revived, and murdered again. John's eyes seethed with rage, fear, and worry. It didn't suit him well.

Before Sam could react, John's fist connected with his face. He yelped in pain and stumbled back. John went in for a second sweep, but Sam was more alert this time. He dodged the uppercut, sidestepping to the right, but didn't attempt to counterattack.

Whether his father realized it or not, John was still his dad and Sam wouldn't dare harm him. For many years, Sam loathed his father for everything. For raising him and Dean into hunting, for trying to control him. But when John died, Sam gained a whole new level of respect for the man. He was only trying his best, and Sam understood that now. This was his chance to gain a sort of redemption.

"John, stop!" Sam cried out.

Completely oblivious to Sam's shouts, John went in for a third round. This time, Sam was a little late in dodging and a foot collided with his stomach. Keeling over in pain, he went to one knee. John hadn't quite satisfied his rage yet, though, because while Sam was facing the floor he was kicked again. 

"I'm not going to fight you... Dad..."

The wording of that sentence only seemed to fuel his father's rage more, however, because then John turned Sam on his back so that he was facing the ceiling. Punch after punch was thrown, but Sam wasn't behind a single one of them. He just let John take out his rage, not even resisting in the slightest bit. He refused to hurt his family. 

Sam didn't know how long the beating went on for, but eventually John stopped, falling back on his hands, panting. Sam's nose was bleeding and there were multiple cuts on his face that were already beginning to bruise. His stomach was sore, and he was worried that he had cracked a rib since he was having a hard time breathing. Of course, he'd had worse before, so it didn't spook him too bad. He just laid there, breathing deeply.

After a few moments of silence, John stuttered, "I-I'm sorry..." 

Panic shone in his eyes, and he immediately stood up and walked out the door. Sam scoffed at that, despite the sharp pain that accompanied it. Black spots danced in his vision, but he denied the urge to give into unconsciousness. After all, Dean needed his help, and he was not about to let yet another person get hurt because of him. Not now, not ever.

After gathering the courage, Sam managed to push himself to a sitting position. He groaned at the pain, but fought through it with the thought of his brother fueling his momentum. Finally, he used the side of the office table to pull himself to his feet. That's when he noticed the dozens of maps and informational brochures sitting in a folder, which were probably for tourists. He picked up one of the local maps of the area and located the correct address.

Sam grinned at himself, as he realized it was a mere few streets down the road. He was going to save Dean, and that was final. He walked over to his gun that he had stolen from the arsenal of his dad's truck and made sure the clip was inserted and loaded.

***

The building was an empty warehouse that was placed on a small back road off the main street of Hickman. Its walls were peeling and were a disgusting shade of green. It was at least five stories tall, and the light of the moon shone through the shattered windows. Sam hadn't realized it was already the evening when he stepped outside, but decided he should still go anyways. 

A lot of people scuffled indoors when Sam walked by them on the sidewalk. He couldn't blame them-- he still looked awful. The blood had dried on his face, as he didn't have the time to wipe it off; his long hair was all twisted and fringed, after his dad had pulled it during the fight; and he was still having trouble breathing. He definitely suspected a broken rib now, but that was alright.

The thing was, Sam not expecting to come out of this fight.

Something wanted him. Alive.

And all he had was a SIG Sauer P229.

The goal was to get Dean free and hope he better high-tail it out of there. Whoever brought him back couldn't have the apocalypse with only one of the Winchesters. He just had to count on the fact that Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to come back for him.

Sam gallantly walked up to the front, metal door and cautiously pushed it open-- it was unlocked. A disgustingly pungent odor of mold and mildew filled his nostrils, causing him to gag. He put his hand to his nose in an attempt to block some of it, but it didn't do much good.

Untucking his handgun from the back of his jeans, Sam stepped through the doorway into the darkened room. A small light flickered at the end of the corridor, and Sam wearily walked over to it. 

He realized the light was streaming in through a small crack in another door, and he turned the safety off his gun as a precaution.

He held his breath, fingered the trigger, and slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way. 

A shot from a rifle.

Then a scream of pain.

Followed by a body dropping to the floor.


End file.
